


Is It Enough?

by mrsatterthwaite



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Anal Sex, Asexuality Spectrum, Dissociation, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gundam Wing Pride Event, M/M, Mentions of 1+R, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, Recreational Drug Use, Sex Work, Uncomfortable Sexual Situation, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:33:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25020193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsatterthwaite/pseuds/mrsatterthwaite
Summary: “Have you had any success with clients like me, Trowa?”You watch the way she tucks her hands under her thighs. You can see from the muscles in her arms that she is clenching and relaxing her fists.“Heero told me you help all sorts of people,” she continues. You’re impressed at how steady her voice is despite her body language. “He assured me of your discretion mainly, but I’d like to hear examples of successes you’ve had with asexual people.”“It depends,” you say slowly. A clench. “What do you consider success?”Trowa helps Relena understand her asexuality, and learns to come to terms with himself in the process.
Relationships: Relena Peacecraft & Heero Yuy, Trowa Barton/Chang Wufei, Trowa Barton/Relena Peacecraft
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6
Collections: 2020 Gundam Wing Pride Event





	1. REUNION

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the mods @wingqueero on tumblr for running this!
> 
> When I set out to write a story that captured an experience within the asexual spectrum, it was important for me to explore complex factors that shape how a person experiences and presents their sexuality: poverty, social status, orientation. I also wanted to explore an ace experience that was not wholly sex-averse/repulsed.
> 
> One minor note/warning I will make is that, while the sex is fully consensual, it may read uncomfortably; this is intentional.

_ I. REUNION _

“Have you had any success with clients like me, Trowa?”

You watch the way she tucks her hands under her thighs. You can see from the muscles in her arms that she is clenching and relaxing her fists.

“Heero told me you help all sorts of people,” she continues. You’re impressed at how steady her voice is despite her body language. “He assured me of your discretion mainly, but I’d like to hear examples of successes you’ve had with asexual people.”

“It depends,” you say slowly. A clench. “What do you consider success?”

“I want to know that I did my best. That I really tried to make it work.” She takes a breath. “That-that I tried to be normal.”

“And what would you consider failure?”

She bites the inside of her cheek and chews on it for a moment. “I don’t want to wake up one day, alone, and realize that it didn’t have to be that way. That I had made a mistake and I won’t be able to take it back.”

You lean forward and take one of her hands in your own. It’s so petite, pale and delicate against yours. You give it a light squeeze, and she seems to come back into the room. 

“If I may, Queen, I’d like to set an additional goal for you?” You wait for her to nod before continuing. “I would like you to rethink what failing means to you. That you can wake up one day and realize that you might want to go on a different path, and that has no bearing on how hard you tried right now.” You can feel her hand tremble and her lower lip does too.

“Perhaps a more suitable goal would be acceptance and trust. I’d like you to come away from our time together trusting that you know what is best for you now, and accepting that you are doing the best you can at the moment.” 

You pause, give some time for the words to sink in. This is it, this is what your work is truly about, this is how you keep your books full. It’s not a magic touch or promise of affection that clients want - it’s the fantasy that they are totally fine as they are and that they’ll be okay. There is a strange, perverse thrill that runs through you when you see the deposits on the next appointments come in: they’re buying it. 

You give her hand another squeeze, and her eyes are damp when they meet yours. They shine full of relief and hope.

“Do you think this is something you’d like to work towards?”

She nods, and you give her your version of a gentle, warm smile. 

After you set the terms regarding consent, boundaries, and safe words, you sign the papers, you review her journal together. It’s been nearly a month since your first session, and you’ve asked her to restrain from any sexual activity, including masturbation. She hands you a thin notebook, and you open to the first page.

Day 1: bored. Wanted the sensation.

Day 2: no reason. Wanted the sensation.

Day 3: did not feel like it.

Day 4: no urges.

You silently skim the pages. You’ve had clients who were repressed, or inexperienced, or modest, or just plain bad writers. Relena’s journal suggests none of that. Her brief reports read with a severe self-awareness. You remember being an observer to your own body this way, analyzing it with a clinical coldness like a coroner over a corpse.

“What happened to days 5-20?” Days 5-20 aren’t even documented, just missing time where others have desires, drives, urges. 

She shrugs and shakes her head. “Nothing happened.”

“That’s not true. Were you in a coma?”

“No. I just-I didn’t feel anything.”

“Days do not just vanish because you don’t have urges. It may seem like something is missing on the page when you do not have any desire, but that’s not true. Even people who don’t consider themselves asexual will record days where they have no interest or thoughts related to sex.”

She doesn’t have to know you fill your calendar with appointments, packed as tightly as your body is able to accomodate. Any open days in your book are for recovery, and you make sure these breaks follow sessions that demand so much of your body and mind that you practically sleep through the days off.

“Tell me. What’s going on?”

She purses her lips in thought. “I’ve been wrapping up preparations for the gala tonight.”

“Okay,” you say, nodding. “Surely you felt something about it?”

Relena lights up as she describes the plans for the evening. The catering menu, the drapes, the garden decorations. She hardly takes time to breathe as she grumbles about officer so-and-so’s latest juice requirements, or how she had painstakingly worded invitations to avoid the debacle of last year, when one ambassador brought his nanny and two infant children without RSVPing for them. It’s not a bother to be accommodating, she says, but one wishes that people could appreciate the degree of emotional and social skill it takes to do so.

“I stopped with the parties for a while, you know, after Brussels and everything,” she says. “It just seemed so frivolous. It still is. But I do enjoy making people feel welcome and seen.”

You nod. “It sounds like you’ve done this all your life.”

“You would know!”

“I’m not as seasoned as you,” you demure, “but I have some experience with the challenges you describe. It’s my job.”

She claps her hands suddenly. “You should come tonight! Heero will be there, of course. You know he doesn’t do well at parties. He says he keeps to himself because he’s working. Keep him company, will you? Oh, and Sally, and Anne, and Noin will be there too! They’ll be happy to see you again, won’t they?”

You can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm. She radiates in this realm, and you wish she could see herself as vibrant as you do. 

“Isn’t it too late to RSVP?”

“Oh, come off it. It’s my party!” She waves her hand. “Besides, I always give Heero a plus-one.”

“Does he still tear the invite?”

“How else would he RSVP?” She rolls her eyes. “I always save an extra seat in case he decides to finally bring one. It’s yours, if you’re free tonight.”

***

The closest you’ve gotten to attending the Preventers’ gala were the wrap-ups in the quarterly newsletters, which you haven’t figured out how to unsubscribe from. It’s been over a decade since you’ve parted ways with them. 

The foyer looks extra polished, transformed by high-top cocktail tables dotting the space, decorated with fresh flowers overflowing from simple vases. The tiles seem to sparkle under your shoes with their fresh coat of wax. Caterers parade through from the kitchen with carts stacked with aluminum trays. They glimmer in the sunlight beaming through the tall French windows. Table linens sweeping around you, sparkling glasses laid out like a crystal landscape.

You’ve seen this all before in cartoon montages, where the plates and cutlery are part of the chorus,the teacups and candlesticks sing, and the dreary castle transforms into a fairy-tale chateau. They move around you; the precise, choreographed motions of skilled workers, and it feels wrong. You’re not the princess of the story, or even the prince who rescues her from whatever curse will befall her. Maybe you’re the horse that doesn’t say anything, just rolls its eyes at the right moments and carries the heroine on a leap of faith to her true love. That sounds right; you’ve been compared to a horse in certain contexts.

You dodge the ensemble, exit stage left and find yourself on the anterior lawn, according to the sign at the threshold.

A brilliant orange light reflects from the surface of the estate’s pond, just across the sloping road that curves around the mansion making you squint until you get used to the burn. You try to get a picture of it with your phone, but you know you’ll lose the details in the shade, and the sparkles of light will become flat, stagnant blown out blotches. 

“That’s a little flashy.” Heero appears out of a copse. He’s already lightened the caterers’ tray by one flute of bubbly.

“It’s a beautiful view, isn’t it?”

He points with his beverage. “I’m talking about your outfit.”

You’re wearing your preening jacket; a brocade number that appears black from a distance and glimmers with an iridescent burgundy sheen when you move. It’s an ice-breaker, the sort of acceptably loud garment that older, conservative fellows latch onto as a conversation topic like a lifesaver in the ocean of small talk. These are the men who will reassure you they love their wife and children before they ask you to choke them with your dick. The younger, newer money guys admire the craftsmanship, running their fingers over the elaborate stitch work over your arms, sliding under the hem ‘to get a feel for the lining.’ Well-to-do ladies watch from afar, eyes running an entire marathon over your body during the course of the night, waiting until the valet pulls up to ask for your card.

“Looking for new work?” Heero asks from behind his wine. He gestures at your hair, a bit of a pompadour compared to your usual style.

“Always,” you reply with a small smile. “I answered your call, didn’t I? Though I didn’t expect you’d be reaching out on her behalf.”

Heero swirls his drink in his glass. “I needed someone we could trust. And you always seem like you can use the money.”

“You always know how to make a guy feel special. You know, I offer hands-on couples’ sessions too–”

His sharp glare cuts you off.

You wink at him. “Don’t be a stranger.”

A steady line of cars crawl up the drive. Their polished grilles gleam in the evening sun, one after the other. All that’s missing is a red carpet leading them to the front door.

Heero squints behind you and presses his lips in a line.

“Good to see you too, Yuy,” someone says from behind you. You know that voice.

“Wufei.” That’s as close to a hello as Heero will get.

“Who-Barton, is that you?” 

You turn around and wave. “Hey, Wufei.”

Wufei strolls down the roped-off path. He surveys the property as he ambles over to the two of you, reflecting sunlight off his aviators. His hair is in a smooth, low ponytail, as you’re used to seeing, though it’s not as tight as he used to wear it. Wufei’s jacket is one of those standing collar affairs. The fabric seems like holographic indigo silk, accented with white and yellow embroidery around the knot buttons. It’s tailored to his body, a modern silhouette that smooths over his shoulders and chest down to a slight cinch in the waist. He cuts a sharp figure with black, slim fit trousers and seamless leather Chelsea boots. And Heero called you flashy.

“You look different.” His brow creases as he squints to look at you. “Did you do something with your hair?”

“Thank you for noticing. Nice jacket,” you say, nodding at his ensemble. “You look like you own a casino.”

“You’re only saying that because I’m Chinese,” he throws back, nudging you with his elbow. He points at your exposed ankles. “You’re dressed like you’re trying to become someone’s fifth husband. What’s that thing over-?” He wiggles his fingers at his neck.

“I told you it was flashy,” Heero murmurs.

“It’s a cravat,” you reply with a sniff.

“Uh huh.” Wufei waves over one of the servers carrying a tray of sparkling wine. Heero switches to a new glass, and Wufei hands you one. “To reunions,” he says, raising the glass. 

You and Heero raise yours, clinking them together, and drink. Wufei’s the only pilot to have stayed with the Preventers as a career. He’s second to Sally, who just made Chief Operations Officer. His gallavants through space have made reunions over the years challenging, though he says these days he’s office-bound.

“What are you doing here, Barton?” Wufei has a way of making questions seem like accusations, even after all this time.

“Relena-”

“I asked him to come.” Heero cuts you off and gives you a warning glance. You let him speak. “I-we ran into each other. On the street.”

Wufei looks between the two of you. He’s not stupid, but he’s tactful and obviously a little scared of Heero, so he drops the subject. “So what do you do these days? Still with the circus?”

You look at Heero before responding. “I freelance.”

“In what?”

“Events.” You’ve been down this line of conversation before, often while on the clock. Ways to talk about what you do so that potentials pick up the hints, the client that you’re with doesn’t lose any face, and everyone else remains in the dark.

“What sort of events?”

“Lots. I’m open to all sorts of occasions.” 

Wufei furrows his brows again, this time not to squint but to match his interrogative tone. “And what do you do for them exactly?”

You take a hearty sip. “Do you think I’m lying?”

“What? No! What kind of question is that? Damn it, Barton, I’m just having a conversation. Fine, keep your business to yourself!” Wufei huffs and finishes his glass before waving down another server. 

Wufei picks up the conversation later, when he catches you stuffing your face with hor d'oeuvres in the foyer. The plates are so tiny, you have to stack them to get a decent meal.

“Okay,” he says, voice low. He’s watching the people mingling outside like he’s on a lookout, and then he turns his attention to you. “What do you really do?”

You chuckle. “And here I thought you were going to tell me you’ve secretly been pining for me all these years.”

“What?!” Wufei is a spectacle when he’s flustered, and you’re an excellent feather ruffler. He’s also switched to harder liquor since the first glass of sparkling wine, whereas you have been lining your stomach, so you have the advantage.

“Why’re you so secretive about it?” He asks. “You’re not involved in some fucked up shit, are you?”

You think for a moment while you chew on a crostini topped with creme fraiche and smoked salmon. Perfect amount of dill and capers on top. “That’s subjective.”

“Trowa.” Oh, so now you’re on a first name basis? “Don’t tell me it’s organs-”

“Wufei, it’s nothing like that.” You place a hand on his chest, flat palm and firm, and the gesture surprises him into silence. “I’m a sex worker.”

His face transforms slowly, from intense concern to annoyance. “Are you fucking with me?” You shake your head no. He doesn’t believe you. It happens.

“Okay, fine, sex work,” he says with a scoff, “What, so you suck old men’s dicks to pay rent?”

“Actually, they pay to suck mine.”

He looks like he’s about to spit his drink out. “They what?!”

“Inside voice,” you murmur, until it seems like he can control himself. 

“They pay to suck your dick?” he whispers comically loud. His eyes wander down. “What’s so special about it?” 

“It’s big.” God it’s too easy with him. You place a finger under his chin and bring his gaze back to your face. “You wanna see? I’ll give you a look, no charge.” You throw in a wink for good measure. 

His eyes go wide, and he can only sputter. “I don’t want to suck your dick!” 

“That’s not what I offered.” You can’t help but be amused at his utter shock. You can’t even hide your delight at teasing him. “Sounds like that’s what you wanted to hear, though.”

He thwacks you in the stomach. He clearly still works out. “Have you been telling people all night?”

“No, I tell them I work freelance in events, and unlike some people,” you make sure you make eye contact with him as you say that, “they’re polite enough to leave it alone.”

“Huh.” He sips his drink, though it’s mostly just ice clinking in his glass. He lets the liquor roll in his mouth for a turn before he swallows. “You’re not hunting for new customers here, right?”

“Wufei.” You muster as much disappointment on your face as you can. “I’m a professional. Of course I’m networking.”

You can only describe the sounds coming out of his mouth as his brain short circuiting. It takes a moment for him to use his words. You place some hors d’oeuvres on your napkins in a neat circle. You fold the corners of the napkins and make a little bundle of treats.

“You can’t! These are decent people.”

You’re not surprised that Wufei is saying this, but it doesn’t make it less annoying. 

“And I’m not?” 

“That’s not what I mean.” He’s flustered again, but you’re not having as much fun with it as before. “Trowa, these people have families. They’re public figures.”

“Hey, look at that guy over there.” You point to a middle-aged man. His hair is combed over to hide thinness at the top. He wears a double breasted suit, with an ostentatious pocket square floridly poking out. “That guy probably begs to have his balls stepped on.” You point to another man, younger, wearing a more modern cut with a big flashy watch. “I’ve pissed on guys like him.”

“T-Trowa-” 

“They pay a lot to get peed on, let me tell you-”

Wufei clutches your elbow. His tone is sharp. “Trowa, don’t talk like that!”

“Like what?” You shake your arm free, nearly jostling his drink out of his other hand. 

“They’re good people.”

This is tiresome. You tuck your snack bundle into your pocket. “You’re right, Wufei, they are good people. You know, maybe I should go ahead and get to know some of them. See if that goodness is contagious.”

“That’s not-damnit Barton, you know that’s not what I meant!”

You thank your past self for having the foresight to pack a fat joint just in case the night got hairy. You imagine yourself cutting a cool figure as you pass through the anterior lawn, a mysterious tall man in the flashy jacket and cravat, a trail of smoke in his wake. It’s like the second chapter of a spicy romance novel, when the love interest is introduced.

You end up on the road, facing the pond. It’s a full moon tonight, perfect for the party. The pond is peaceful under the lunar light. Is there a way to get down there? It’d be a beautiful spot to stargaze.

There’s a rustle in the grass behind you. An older man languidly strolls this way. He gestures at the moon with his cigarette. “Spooky, huh?”

“Depends.” You turn back to the pond and take a puff.

“On what?” He’s lighting up beside you now. A large, thick-banded ring on his hand catches the moonlight. Whatever he has smells sweet with undertones of spices. When he exhales, the scent seems to linger in the air.

“You superstitious?” You let the smoke stream out of your mouth as you speak so it swirls around your face. A smoke screen. You chuckle at the thought.

He’s watching your face carefully. “Me? Not one bit.” His voice seems rougher after he’s started smoking.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” you murmur like you’re thinking to yourself out loud. 

“Don’t tell me you’re into that hocus pocus nonsense.”

You turn carefully, minding the moonlight. He’s shorter than you, so it’s easier to work the heavy-lidded look. You make sure to push your lips out a little when you exhale, making them appear fuller. “Nothing wrong with wanting to believe in magic, is there?”

He watches you from the corners of his eyes. It’s the look of a con man, checking if anyone else is counting the cards. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name-”

“Trowa.” You take his offered hand firmly.

“What do you do, Trowa?”

This again. “I work in events.”

“Like weddings, or birthday parties?”

Inhale. “Yes, I do parties.” 

“What kind of parties?” His questions come one, two, right after the other. These elite types follow the same flow chart for conversation, you have it down to a script.

“Private ones.” Smoke screen. “They’re always a good time.”

He stares you down while he sucks on his cigarette. It’s a tactic he uses in the boardroom or at the dealership, an intense gaze until the other party knocks down the price or throws in the extra warranty, free of charge.

“I bet they are,” the man replies thoughtfully. “Can’t say I could give you any business though. I’m more of a quiet night in sort of man myself. Although,” he purses his lips around his cigarette, “I am on the market for a babysitter, if that’s a service you offer.” 

You keep the joint perched between your lips, to resist a smile. He’s one of those guys. You’ve never had a conversation about this out in the wild. You choose your words carefully, to ensure he’s implying what you think he’s implying. “I can change a diaper, if that’s what you need. I’ve worked with babies of all ages and sizes.”

“I’d like to see how you handle that.” He holds your eyes for a few more seconds, before he finally turns away to blow smoke. “There’s a guest bathroom with a changing table. I have the bag in my car-” 

“There you are!” 

Of all fucking people, Wufei comes strolling down the road. He has the audacity to wave like he didn’t just piss you off a few minutes ago. He looks at the man with you. “Mister Nulle! I didn’t know you smoked.”

“Don’t tell my wife.” The man replies with a smile, but it looks tight. “This a friend of yours, Chang?”

“Yes, Trowa and I have been close since way back.” He claps an arm around your shoulder. This is different. Wufei’s rarely this chummy around others, even after a few glasses or bottles. For one, he has to reach up awkwardly to make up for the height difference, and you can’t stand totally upright with his weight on you. Even with the odd angle, his arm holds tight.

“Is that so?” Nulle looks at the two of you, and at the arm draped over you.

“It is,” Wufei nods. “We’ve been catching up all night. Though it looks like there’s more to talk about.” Wufei looks down at the smoldering joint between your fingers.

“A man’s allowed to keep some things to himself, isn’t he?” Nulle flicks his cigarette butt down the asphalt. “Then I’ll leave you boys to it. Nice chat, Trowa. Say, did you have a card?” 

Wufei flexes his arm against your neck, but you reach into your inner pocket and bring out a small, thick business card for him. 

“Thanks. I might need that consultation sooner rather than later.” He tucks it into his breast pocket, and you almost expect him to wink at you. He nods at Wufei. “Chang, keep up the good work.” You both watch quietly as he heads back up to the lawn.

You shake out of Wufei’s hold. “Did you just fucking cock block me?”

“Yeah,” Wufei replies. “That guy’s no joke, Trowa. He’s one of our biggest investors.” Wufei grabs both your shoulders and shakes them. The weed is kicking in hard and fast, and you stumble from his aggressive jostling. “That guy will fuck up your life if you breathe funny around him. He’s bad news.”

“No way, man.” Your voice sounds funny as you speak while being shaken. It’s like they’re wobbling out of you. If you could see your words in the air like a comic, they would be written with wavy lines unevenly.

“I’m serious. Literally anyone else but him.” Wufei lets go of you. The light throws harsh shadows on his face at this angle. 

You glance in the direction the man went off to. He’s already out of sight, but you whisper anyway. Who knows who’s listening. “That guy has a diaper fetish. I think he just asked me to change his diaper.”

The light isn’t doing any favors for Wufei’s face, but it suits his horrified expression. “What?!”

You get closer to make sure no one else can hear. Your lips are by his ear, and you lean heavily on him. The hill is steeper than you remember. He seems stiff for a guy who’s been throwing back the booze all night.

“He said he has ‘his bag’ in the car. He has a whole diaper bag! I think he wants me to meet him in the bathroom to show him how I change diapers.” A shocking thought comes to your mind, and you burst into giggles. “Oh my god-what if-what-what if he’s wearing one now?” And the thought overtakes you, and you’re exploding with snickers and chortles and heehees. “Should I-?”

“No!” Wufei smacks your arm.

Your mind is racing. The guy that has Wufei practically shitting his pants has a fetish that allows him to basically shit his pants. Everyone’s shitting themselves metaphorically and literally. This is too much. Your face hurts from laughing. “We gotta tell Heero.”

“Absolutely not!” Wufei steps back and holds you at arm’s length. “You can not go back to that party. Look at you, you’re too fucked up.”

It takes a few seconds for the laughter to subside before you can speak. “I’m fucked up? I’m not the one with a diaper fetish!” 

“You have to stop saying that.”

You take a deep breath of air. “Diap-!” 

Wufei clamps his hands over your mouth mid-shout. “We’re leaving. Now.”

“Wait!” You break out of his hold on your mouth and bring out your phone. It was here somewhere-

“What now?” You don’t get why he’s acting all tired of your shit. He’s the one getting all up in your business. “Trowa, get off the ground! What are you doing?”

“It was around here,” you mumble. You know it was around this way. Was it in the grass? No, you remember the embers fading into the darkness this way. “Do you have a light?”

Wufei grumbles and pulls out his cell phone. He aims the flashlight at the ground beneath you.

“There!” You were right. The cigarette butt the man had thrown earlier is lying on the road. This is Relena’s home. It’s rude for a guest to treat a host’s home like that. You pick it up to put it in your pocket. Something’s in your pocket already, a bulky mass inside a napkin. What the hell? Oh shoot. The giggles are back. It’s the hors d’oeuvres to-go pack you made earlier. It seemed like hours ago. No one cares about you as much as past-you does. 

“Are you done?” He grabs your elbow and gets you to your feet. 

“D’you want one?” You show him your brilliant snack pack. “Yo, these are so good.”

“Stop fucking around.”

You hold a bite-sized arancini between your fingers and inch it towards his face. “You want one?” It’s like a little deep-fried meteor, hurtling through space. Whoom, whoom. There’s no sound in space, you know, but you can’t help making them anyway. Whooooom. Tiny breaded deep-fried rice ball, topped with a dollop of marinara sauce and spices. Whooom. You press it to Wufei’s lips, and he looks down at it cross-eyed.

“Permission to board,” you say, taking tremendous efforts to hold back another gurgle of laughter. Wufei is so over it. You press the arancini against his lips. Smoosh smoosh. Smooooooooosh. Smosh. Finally, he opens his mouth and seizes the snack with his teeth. Good boy, you whisper. Wufei glares at you while he chews. His coloring looks better under the moon now, warmer, not as pale as before.

“Come on,” he says when he’s finished eating, “I’m taking you home. To your home.” He quickly adds the last bit, as if he knew you were going to say something smart. 

“Isn’t the parking lot that way?”

“Yeah?” Wufei keeps leading you down the path. “I didn’t bring my bike. Rode in with Sally.”

“Can I at least see what kind of car the diaper-man has?” He glares up at you. You reassure him that you were joking, but you did hope to leave the party in one of these fancy two-door low riders- the kind of cars men buy when they feel sad about their dicks.

What’s Wufei’s riding these days? He used to have one of those crotch rockets. Imagine being on one of those, shrill vroom vrooms between your legs, your knees flanking his hips, arms tight around his waist. 

“Do you still have your bike?”

“No, I upgraded a few years ago.” He shows you a picture. It looks like some new age comic book sort of vehicle, an exposed battery framed by wood accents. Wood? It’s an eco thing, he says. He points to the electric battery, and rattles off some numbers about horsepower and charge times and mileage. Is it a smooth ride though? Yes, he says, like gliding on the road. Electric means it’s quiet, and you don’t get the same vibrations as with a gas engine. You hug your arms around him. He feels thicker than you imagined, his smaller frame compact with toned muscle. His hair against your face is like a cool summer night sea breeze, crisp, invigorating, fleeting. 

Wufei sighs, but doesn’t say anything. You imagine he’s rolling his eyes. He can’t complain; he’s the one forcing you to go along with him. 

The quiet road off Relena’s property is dotted with big yellow circles cast down from the street lamps. If you look carefully, you can see the little bugs swarming around the bright electric bulbs. You close your eyes and you see yourselves from above, staggering down the gentle slope watching the moonlit pond as you follow the curve towards the main road.


	2. THE NIGHT OUT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes some conversation involving identification paperwork and background checks that may be uncomfortable to some. Please proceed with caution.

_ II. THE NIGHT OUT _

_ I know I've felt like this before _

_ But now I'm feeling it even more _

_ Because it came from you _

Wufei wants to hail you a taxi, but you insist on walking home. It’s not that far, and the night air feels so fresh. It’ll sober you up. The full moon seems farther out in the sky, not as high up as it was when you left the party, and the streets are empty. Wufei walks with you to make sure you don’t end up stumbling into an oncoming car or falling in a ditch, or so he says.

“What happened to ‘they’re good people?”

“Hm?”

“You told me at the party that ‘they’re good people.’” Words are hard when your tongue feels so thick in your mouth, but the question is burning your mind right now. “And then you go on and tell me that that guy is bad news. What’s the truth?” 

Wufei looks up for a moment before responding. “He made his money on shady infosec stuff. I heard he lobbied the Alliance to pass that security clearance provision for government contractors.”

“Provision 0X?” 

“Yeah, that one. You know it?”

“Know it? That’s why I left Preventers.”

Provision 0X was an amendment to labor law with such specific language that everyone knew it was meant to curb the Preventers’ growth. It states that government-funded or contracted agencies’ employees must go through the same stringent background clearance that mid-career government employees were expected to pass. This applied to all employees: high-ranking ones like Sally and Wufei, down to the administrative staff and janitors. 

The amendment was passed after an aggressive campaign to paint the Preventers and all its affiliates as former terrorists and war dogs. Suddenly, everyone wanted accountability on all sorts of government expenses. The provision held through a recession, and when the state began offering grants and bailouts to businesses, you’d found that almost the entire job market had become inaccessible to you. 

There was no way you would have cleared the background checks. What’s worse, anyone who failed could be subject to further investigation. You couldn’t risk it, not with a dead man’s name.

“Well, shit.” is all Wufei can say. “They gave us a list of approved agencies to run the background checks. That guy owns half of them. He buys himself a seat on the Preventers’ board, and he gets practically all of it back from the amount of business we’ve given him.”

“Fuck him, man.” Your mood is soured now. “If he calls me, I’m gonna blackmail his diaper-wearing ass. Fuck it, I’ll just expose him. What a-”

“Trowa-”

“Why does he get to be seen as a decent guy? Why do you let him? And then you turn around and act like I’m some freak criminal because I do sex work? I’m not the one who pays to get pissed on, or to shit in a diaper and have someone else change it for me!” You unbutton your jacket, you’re getting so heated. 

“Good people. Right. That’s why they pay me to get their rocks off, so they can go back to their good homes and be good people with their good spouses and be good parents to their good children, who’ll grow up and become the same kind of fucked up people their parents were.”

He frowns. “Don’t talk like that. It doesn’t suit you.” 

“Pardon my language, Wufei,” you retort sarcastically, “I have a bad habit of talking dirty when I’m getting fucked.”

“You know, I was serious before. When I asked if you needed help getting out of trouble.”

“I’m not in trouble. I don’t need to be rescued.” You’re tired of having the same conversation over and over. “I need people to fuck off with their white knight pity shit and just let me live.”

“It’s not right,” he says. “You’re just as good as the rest of us. You shouldn’t have to sell your body to survive.”

Annoyance bubbles inside you. “I know you think that’s a compliment, Wufei, but that’s what I mean. You have this idea of what I do from god knows where, but you don’t know anything.”

“You’re the one who told me you get paid to piss on people. You told me you were prepared to put a diaper on one of the most powerful men in the private sector. Those are the words you literally said to me. If I have the wrong idea, that’s on you.” His words are even, but you can tell from the slight tremor in his speech he is exerting a considerable amount of control over his voice.

“Why do you keep bringing this up anyway?”

“Me?” Now he’s raising his voice. “What the hell are you smoking? You’re the one who started it this time. I’m the one asking you to stop talking about it!”

Your face gets hot. He’s right, technically, which is the stupidest way to be right. “Why are you still here then? You know, Heero’s never been up my ass about it. You should just go back up there and be with all those respectable good folks!”

“God damn it, Trowa! I haven’t seen you in years, and here you are talking about doing sex work, and you’re doing drugs, too? You could barely walk on your own back there. I’m worried about you!”

His words echo off the quiet, shuttered warehouses surrounding you. They hit like a splash of cold water; you’re alert now.

“I’m okay,” you say, because that’s the thing to say when you don’t know what to say. “I can take care of myself.”

“That’s not the point,” he says, “I’m telling you because I hardly recognize you anymore.”

Spontaneous intervention with Wufei Chang wass not on your bingo card of ways the night would end. The guy’s always been too much of a straight shooter, a bull in a china shop in some ways. You’re amazed he’s managed to climb the ladder at Preventers with the way he puts his thoughts out there and wears his feelings on his face. Like now, though you can’t really read it. Discomfort? Distress? Disgust? Disapproval? Disappointment? Lot of ‘dis-’ words come to mind for some reason. Disaster, that’s another one. He has no right to look at you like that - like he’s sorry for you. 

“I’m not working the streets or anything. I’m not even actually having sex like two-thirds of the time. I just said all that shit to get a reaction from you.” 

Wufei looks like he wants to call your bluff, but he lets it alone for now. The street lights cast an unnatural yellow glow over you both. He has his back against it, and it looks like he has a soft halo around him. Even with his face in the shadows, you can tell he’s wondering when your paths diverged so far apart. 

It started with part-time work at clubs, when the circus was in the off-season. You started out as a barback, ended up becoming a gogo boy. The tips were decent. Someone asked if you did cam work. Those tips were much better, and that led to dates, and then. Et cetera. You like making people feel good, even if their kinks are out there. You spend far more time with folks who have unique needs, ranging from limited mobility to those figuring out their sexualities. Sometimes you get couples who just want a skilled third. It’s easier to retain existing customers and sell them a new product than convert new ones. You didn’t expect these clients to come back and tell you how you empowered or validated them. You’re proud of that. You found out that the niche stuff paid better and had a better retention rate. You spin it all like an economics lecture.

“And that’s why you pee on people. Because it’s good business.”

“Why do you think they call it a golden shower?”

Wufei winces, but he can’t help snicker through the cringe. After all that, you’ve finally gotten him to crack.

“Does your work affect your dating life?” 

The question comes out of nowhere, well it comes out of Wufei, but it’s not exactly the line of inquisition you were expecting. Tax filing, expenses, and deductions are more up his alley. It almost seems too banal for him.

“The key for it to not affect my dating life is to not have a dating life.” You tap your temple like you’re pulling the curtain back on some sort of social conspiracy. 

You say you were too busy making sure you had money in the bank. You think you’d be better at it now if you wanted to try. Sexuality is a performance you’ve mastered, cobbled together from movies, books, videos, streams. You’ve studied the cues: this is an ahh, that is a sigh, this touch means a throaty moan, that touch is a ‘fuck yes’. Sometimes it is organic; you make the face or the sound when there’s a physical sensation. It’s why you do so well at work; it doesn’t matter to them whether you actually feel any deep soul connection or not as long as you sell the illusion of it. That’s why they pay you for the trouble.

Work is a convenient excuse. People are uncomfortable recognizing their own stigmas, and they usually drop the conversation lest they expose themselves. 

Wufei is not one of these people. “So are you not interested in dating?” 

Luckily, you know how to get him to drop a conversation. You sidle next to him and slide an arm around his waist, resting your hand on his hip. “Are you trying to ask me out on a date, Wufei?”

“I think you’ve made it clear that I’m too uptight for you,” he says drily, though he doesn’t pull away.

“What? No!” So he’s still sharp after all that booze.

“I’m not in your desired income bracket anyway,” he adds. “I still have to work for a living.”

You scoff. “I’ll have you know I offer scaled pricing for customers in marginalized groups. Besides, I thought we were talking about personal dating.”

“Okay then,” he says, “what’s the difference between a personal date and a paid one?”

“Well, when it’s a personal date, I don’t have to pretend you’re funny, or act impressed at how smart or accomplished you are.”

Wufei snorts. “You’re really selling yourself here.”

“That’s the point,” you say, “You get all the parts of me that people pay to not see.”

“So I’d be getting the bone-in, skin-on experience. Noted.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “I don’t offer the bone-in experience until you pay for dinner.”

“Are you sure the reason you’re not dating is because you’re too busy?”

Okay, now you break the hold to give him a light push. “My scintillating charm isn’t for the weak of heart.”

“Maybe I should be charging you for a date!” He has the nerve to cackle while he stumbles across the curb. 

“You wish.” You shove your hands in your pockets. “I don’t ask.”

“Wow.” Now he’s at your side, squeezing a hand into the crook of your elbow. “That’s a hard bargain you’re driving there, Barton. You don’t ask, you don’t laugh at jokes. But you’ll put out for dinner.” He holds his hands in the air to weigh the decision, an awkward motion when one is threaded through your arm.

“I said I don’t offer until you pay for dinner,” you correct him.

“I deal with inter-space contracts daily, but I have not found one with as many terms and conditions as you have. What other hurdles does one have to clear for the privilege of your bed?”

“First,” you hold up a finger to emphasize, “don’t be a douchebag. Second, we can talk about that over dinner.” 

You point across the street to a food truck, parked under a street light. Smoke gently floats up from its various exhaust pipes. It’s gaudily painted and a beat-up sandwich board serves as the menu. The pictures on the side of the truck are a haphazard photo collage of food that you are certain is from a totally different restaurant.

Wufei turns to you with a brow raised. “Really? Now?”

You shrug. “If you insist on taking me home, you gotta follow the rules.” You break out of his grip and take long strides to the truck before Wufei can argue, letting your stomach lead the way.

A radio blares from the little truck window, so loud you can feel the distorted sound waves on your face. They have the same CD on repeat; you know the songs phonetically by now. Wufei gestures for you to give your order, but the guy behind the window recognizes you. Pernil, tostones, arroz con gandules. He raises his brows and nods approvingly at you when Wufei hands a crisp large bill to pay for the food.

“Is this your spot?” Wufei says as you take a seat in the makeshift dining area. The seats look like overturned buckets. 

“Yeah, he’s never seen me this sober though.” You take a generous pile of pork and dump it in Wufei’s tray, then help yourself to a smaller portion of his chicken.

“Hey, are you taking all the skin?!” His hand is on your wrist before you even see him move. His grip is strong, almost absurdly so for the small transgression of taking the best parts of his plate. Your body tingles from ears to toes, even after he lets go. He uses his fork to reclaim some of the fatty skin on his tray, and takes some of your chicharrón for his troubles.

You shove a fork full of pork into your mouth. You’re suddenly aware of how urgently you eat, how you’ve calibrated the rate of consumption to optimize stomach space while still savoring the flavors. Wufei dines in a more civilized manner, even using the plastic knife that came with your food. He reminds you of the high rollers on your books, napkin on his lap and cutting his street food into proper bite-sizes. You start chewing slowly, and you pick up your knife too. 

“Alright, here is dinner of your choosing,” Wufei says, gesturing grandly at your styrofoam containers on a wobbly aluminum table. “Have I won your heart yet?”

You pick at his white rice. “You’re not even in the playoffs.”

“And how does one qualify to win?” He puts a broccoli floret on your plate. “What’s the next step in the intricate mating ritual of Trowa Barton?”

You put your fork and knife down, and wipe your mouth. “Well you already forgot the first rule, which is don’t be a douchebag, so you are officially disqualified-”

“What a shame.”

“-But if you know any qualified candidates, tell them that I expect to be swept off my feet.”

He raises a brow. “And how should I instruct these candidates to do that?”

You shrug. “Surprise me.” 

Wufei opens his mouth to speak, hesitates, then goes back to picking at his vegetables.

You bite. “Just say it.”

He chews thoughtfully. “I’m surprised you’re still single.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” You bat your eyelashes at him, and reach for more of his rice.

“I’m serious.” You can tell he is. “You’re charming, confident, handsome. Tall. You’re the kind of guy who can probably go home with anyone you set your eyes on. I wish I had some of that.”

“You can too. Look at you. C-level at the Preventers. Sharp style. You’re a good guy.”

“You don’t have to say that,” he says, putting a hand up. “I know I’m not that exciting.”

You push his hand down. “It’s true though. You’re a solid dude. I always thought out of all of us you’d settle down first.”

“Honestly?” He laughs wryly. “Me too.”

You debate whether to pry or not. You try to stay out of others’ business, but Wufei seems like he’s in the mood to unload. “I know my damage, but what’s yours?”

He puts his fork and knife down, and sets his napkin on the table. “Sometimes you do the thing that feels right, and then you wake up and realize you’re just going through the motions. You make two cups of coffee or set a second plate because it’s a habit, not because you’re thinking of someone else. That’s sad, isn’t it?”

You nod. You can’t relate, but you want to encourage him to speak his mind. 

“I don’t think we missed each other when it was over.” His chin rests heavy on his hand. “That was the disappointing part. There was no longing for what could have been. And then I thought about it and realized we never had that the entire time. It’s like it may as well never have happened.”

As much as you feel for him, a part of you is relieved that even a guy as together as Wufei is having trouble in that department. He’s a textbook catch, especially amongst the crowd you were in earlier. “If you can’t hang on to someone, what chance do I have?”

“But that’s where we’re different!” He says emphatically, “you have this-this energy, this magnetism that draws people to you.”

“To a certain point. They always lose interest.” 

“No way. Why?” 

“It’s probably the clown thing.” 

You shrug deep, exaggerated, as if you have absolutely no idea why you’re so repulsive to prospective partners. You can pretend for a session, but it’s not the type of performance you can sustain intimately over time. Relationships are not recipes, where you can just substitute sexual chemistry with charm, humor, thoughtfulness, or a combination of those with a lesser physical contact. You’re a clown, not a magician. 

***

You love walking home as the night lifts. No one is out, the day feels so full of potential. When you finally reach your apartment, you see the sun is just catching up. The eastern facades across the way are washed in a coral light. You take him to the back side, where you have a private staircase up to your fourth floor apartment. It used to be a fire escape, a remnant of the building's warehouse days.

“Well,” you say, spinning on your heels. “This is it.”

Wufei squints up at the building. “This is a warehouse.”

“Converted,” you correct him. He doesn’t look any more impressed.

“If you say so.” At least he has the sense to keep his opinions to himself. 

“I’m working on it. It looks better on the inside.” You spare him your plans to green up the metal railings with a sort-of vertical garden; he might try to lecture you on the necessary agricultural zoning certifications. “It’s bright, and I get a great view of the sunset.”

He scrutinizes the building. “It must be a really good view.”

It is. You can just sit by the windows and watch the clouds roll by, or see everyone else scramble home in the evening rush hour while you get ready for work. You never get tired of the peaceful, gradual transition between pale blue to pink, then orange, then indigo night.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Wufei, have you considered maybe you’re single because you can’t tell when someone is inviting you to come up to their apartment?”

He blinks slowly. It’s been a long night. “I thought I was disqualified for, uh, what was the rule? Being a douchebag?”

You roll your eyes. “Your charges have been reduced to plain sad sack. Besides, it’s like four in the morning. Where else are you gonna go? Trains aren’t running.”

“True. I should come up so I can report back to all the eligible suitors who might want to win your heart.”

He opens your cupboard, closes it for a moment, then opens it again.

“What do you need?”

He gets on his tip-toes, as if the extra two inches will somehow manifest his expectations in front of him. “Do you have tea cups?”

“They’re right in front of you!” You reach over him and pull out two mugs for him. “If you can drink tea from it, it’s a tea cup.”

He looks horrified. “And you get paid how much to pee on people?” You shove him for the insolence, but you smile; he’s gotten way more bearable about the topic. 

He pulls out a box from behind your assortment of passable drinking vessels. The exterior cover is a thick board with a leathery texture. He slides the inner box out, revealing a three-piece tea ceremony set: a small tin of powder with the freshness seal still intact, a slender scoop stick thing, and a bamboo whisk.

“How do you have this, and not even one proper tea cup?” He seems offended at this point, and you can only shrug.

“It was a gift.” 

“Not a good one, huh?” He picks up the tin and turns it in his hand.

“What are you talking about? It came from one of the oldest tea houses in Japan. On Earth!” 

He raises a brow and picks up the cover. “You’ve had this for three years and never used it.”

“I was waiting for a special occasion.” 

“And there was none in three years?” He clicks his tongue in his mouth. “This is a vanity gift. It’s the kind of gift someone gives when they want to show off.”

“Yeah? I think it’s nice, and that’s all that matters because it was for me. See, I kept the card!” You pick up a crisp, burgundy envelope from the box. The sides have a slight crease where your thumb and forefinger pressed to pop the side open, and you pull out a thick, cream cardstock. The paper has a texture to it, and it feels sturdy in your fingers.

“‘Happy Birthday. Thinking of you. All my love.’” Wufei reads monotonously. “No names on it. Real personal.”

“It’s the thought that counts.” You slide the card back into its envelope and tuck it back into the box. 

You used to keep the set out on your coffee table, so you could see it every day and marvel that someone gave it to you. It was the most expensive thing you had ever received at the time, and the first ever gift from a client. You used to open the box every day and pick up each item and turn it over. You’d catch yourself holding your breath at how precious they looked in the faux-velvet lining and then you’d carefully place everything back inside. 

“Do you even remember who it was from?” Wufei asks. 

“Duh, yeah.” You pluck the tin out of his hands and begin to peel the plastic around it. Wufei waits for you to enlighten him, but it’s not going to happen. 

It was the first time you’d wondered if a client had fallen in love with you. You envisioned him taking you to balls and sending a private shuttle to take you to him at his next assignment. You wondered if there would ever be scandalous headlines or paparazzi at your door. You tried to remember if you knew his children’s names, and what sort of presents you would bring if you ever had to meet them. He was the only client you’d ever told about your inclinations. He held you and called you special. And then he never called again after that.

“Would you like to try it?”

Wufei’s question snaps you out of your thoughts. “Hm?”

He pulls the little bamboo whisk out of the box and wiggles it in the air. “A tea ceremony.”

“You know how to do it?”

“Yes, but honestly, it’s not like you’d know either way, right?” He smirks as he unscrews the lid of the tea tin. “I could be making it up all along, making some fucked up garbage tea, and you’d just be like-” Wufei begins miming sipping from a cup with his hands in the air, “‘mmm, oh yeah, this issuch a great present!’”

“Ok, first off,” and you have nothing else to say to that because he’s right, even down to your vocal fry, so you shove him towards the fridge.

“Take a seat,” he says and you can hear the smugness in his voice, “and I’ll turn this into a good gift.”

He rummages through your cabinets and settles on some bowls. He fills one larger mixing bowl with water from the sink. He puts the electric kettle on, and then sets the other bowls, the tea set, and a towel on the table. He takes off his ornate jacket and drapes it on the back of his chair. The shirt has to be bespoke, with the way it gently hugs his shoulders and embraces his waist. It’s an impressive silhouette.

“So this is going to be ochakai-lite,” he says, gesturing at the mismatched wares in front of you. He takes the towel and picks up the tea tin. “First you wipe this bad boy down-”

You raise your brows. “Is that the official term?”

“Who’s the authority here?” He sets the tin by a large bowl. He unfolds and refolds the towel and picks up the slender scooper thing and wipes it down. At first, he explains each step, but it’s a lot of wiping so his explanations drop off quickly. He takes the whisk and swirls it in the bowl with sink water. He turns it in his hands, carefully checking the tool before setting it down. His motions are methodical, deliberate, and soothing to watch. 

He takes the kettle as soon as the water is at the right temperature and pours it into one of the smaller bowls. You don’t know exactly why he has to keep turning the bowl in his hand in tiny increments, but it’s so precise there has to be a reason for it. The way he balances the little scooper thing between his ring and pinky fingers while using his other fingers to open the tin, the way he takes a tool from one hand with the other just to set it down or place it right, the way he turns the bowl bit by bit in his hands.

He has a vein running up his wrist, snaking up the back of his hand. It’s more pronounced when his forearm flexes to pick up the kettle or turn the bowl. The lines of his hand and fingers while he holds the whisk, swirling it gently around the growing foam, are hypnotic in their skillfulness. You breathe almost like the air is just floating through you, and you don’t dare disrupt the delicacy of the moment. You feel a shiver down your back, yet it feels like your cheeks and neck are getting warm. 

His fingers press against the bowl as he does another rotation. You imagine those fingers caressing your face, combing through your hair, pulling your hair, squeezing your throat, in your mouth. Goosebumps. 

He passes the bowl to you. You move slowly. You don’t want to burst this precious moment. It's his warmth you feel from the porcelain. He watches you raise the bowl to your lips, and you know you’re blushing under his intense gaze. You’ll say it was the heat of the tea. 

It’s thick, like a latte, rich and full-bodied in your mouth, but t’s nothing like coffee in flavour; there’s no acidity but bitterness. So heavy in its bitterness. You like the feel of it on your tongue, though you can’t take more than a sip at a time.

“Well?”

You just nod and set the bowl down. The dreamy calm you felt is slowly fading, and you hold on to it as long as you can by staying silent. 

He grins. “Why don’t you try? Here, you don’t have to do all the fancy stuff, just try mixing the tea yourself.” 

He places the tea tin and the scooper thing in front of you, and then pushes an empty bowl after. Your face, your hands, your body tingles knowing he is watching your every move. You can’t feel your clothes against your skin from the sensation, and you may as well naked under his dark eyes. You can’t tell if your hands are shaking from nerves, or if it’s your heartbeat ripping through your body so fast it causes tremors. You dip the scooper into the powder, so finely ground that it compacts under the most minute pressures. That’s enough, you hear him say, and you slowly pivot your arm, and then the powder lands in the bowl with a small green cloud dusting your fingers.

He must have noticed your unsteady hands. He handles the kettle and pours a slow stream of steaming water into the bowl. You’re still holding the tea tin in one hand and the scooper in the other.

“Here, give me those.” He takes them from you and sets them aside. He picks up the whisk and puts it in your left hand.

You dip the whisk in the water-

“Wait.” He takes your right hand, and your chest feels so full, swelling from inside out, and he guides your hand to the bowl. It’s hot, his hand and the bowl are hot, you feel hot with your hand sandwiched between them but you don’t want it to stop.

You dip the whisk in the water, and swirl it around the bowl. You feel the tines’ resistance when you hit the bottom. The powder blooms and turns the water into a foggy green.

“Do it more like-” Wufei’s suddenly behind you, surrounding you, and he puts his left hand over yours to show you the correct motions. They’re like brief, controlled flicks of the wrist. You feel his arm muscles flexed against yours, and his fingers press against yours while he shows you how to work the tea into a foam. Your mind is a foam, bubbles just spinning and spinning round and round. 

He lets go, satisfied that you’re mimicking his motions properly, and he leaves an empty chill in his wake. You feel his breath tickling your neck, and your body leans towards it, searching, searching for him. There’s a lurch in your stomach, the uncanny weightlessness when your body loses the ground - it’s just a moment but that’s all it takes for your heart to leap fearful, frightened, ready for the crash–

He’s there, pressing against you, warm, flush, supporting you. You’re breathing now, short, shallow, you turn slowly, slowly, like a bowl of tea, and he’s there, right there. His hand on your jaw just like you imagined, your face meets his, and then you exhale, a flutter from your lips to his.

The tea swirls in the bowl. Even as it cools, forgotten, the gentle foam drifting in lazy circles remembers you.

  
A thin beep breaks the moment. Wufei makes a frustrated sound, and pulls away. It’s his alarm.

“It’s that time,” he says quietly. He straightens up and reaches for his things. He stops midway, turns back to you, indecisive. His body stutters, and then he picks up his jacket. You follow him to the door.

“Uh.” 

He looks up at you while he slips his boots on. Some loose strands have fallen out of his ponytail and soften his face.

“Thanks.” Your breath feels shallow. “For last night. I was pretty fucked up.”

He blinks, like he’s waiting for something else. “Oh, uh. Yeah. No problem.” He slips his jacket on, though he leaves the buttons undone. He checks his pockets for keys, phone, and then he’s reaching for the door. His hand is on the knob, and then he spins around. “Would you, uh, like to do that again sometime? Maybe not on a Thursday night?”

You feel a little lightheaded, and you nod until your breath catches up. “Yeah. Yeah I’d like that.”

It feels like a full minute before Wufei responds. “Great.” And then he’s out the door. It happens so quickly, you lean out the doorway to make sure the whole thing wasn’t a dream.

It wasn’t. He’s just a few steps down the fire escape. He stops, then doubles back up until he’s back on your floor and then he leans in and you’re kissing again, and it’s- So good. You feel force behind it, pushing you against the door. Ardent. He’s a drowning man searching for breath, and he takes yours. Again, and again, and again. He pulls away, and then he’s down the stairs for good.

You stand there frozen, pressed against the door until he’s out of sight, and you stay a moment longer to process what happened. You touch your lips, and then you slowly peel away from the door. Your heart seems to be knocking in your chest. The long night is catching up to you. You open your eyes wide, as if that will awaken you from this strange reverie.

Your heart is beating too fast for it to have been a dream. The tea cups are still on the table. You touch them. Still warm. You take the cup he made for you and hold it against your lips as the memories of that night fly through your mind. Wufei in the sunset glow. The way your shoulders touched when you walked down the road by the pond. His dark eyes under the street lights. The way your knees touched when you ate. The way his hands moved to make tea. The skill, the precision of the turns. His fingers, firm against your face during that last kiss, ghosting on your lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lyrics from “Dreams” by The Cranberries


	3. SINK

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes some pretty raunchy sex dialogue, as well as some mentions about documentation/ paperwork/ identification that may be uncomfortable for some. Please proceed with caution.

_ III. SINK _

_No, no es amor lo que tu sientes se llama obsesión_  
_Una ilusión en tu pensamiento_  
_Que te hace hacer cosas_  
_Así funciona el corazón_

You pass Heero in the hall. He sits on a plush chair in a corner, next to an ornate end table. He closes the book he was reading. You wonder if Relena had him pinned at the center of her moodboard when she was furnishing this corner of her massive home.

“So you’re chummy with Wufei now.”

“Hello to you too, Heero. Didn’t take you to be a gossip.”

He shrugs. “It’s not gossip if it’s straight from the horse’s mouth. He’s been blowing up my phone asking about you.”

You can’t help but grin. “Let me see!”

Heero obliges, scrolling up on his phone to show you the messages. 

When did you run into Trowa? 

How often do you guys see each other? 

Has he mentioned seeing anyone? 

For every one of Heero’s curt responses, three more clarifying questions follow. You feel secondhand cringe at the interrogation, but it’s overshadowed by delight. People don’t ask after you like this. 

“It’s pretty embarrassing, honestly,” Heero says, putting his device away. “You too. Don’t tell me you think this is cute.”

“I can’t be mad. He did ask me out like you suggested.” You cock your head to the side. “Are you jealous?”

“Of what?” 

“That he had the balls to actually go for what he wants?”

Heero raises his brow and opens his book back to his place. “Don’t be late for your appointment.”

“I heard a rumor,” Relena says in a singsong voice. “That you went home with someone after the party.”

Fucking Heero. You’re surprised at Relena’s straightforwardness. It’s different from the distant formality of the last session. You rather like seeing her relaxed.

“I did,” you say, and she shrieks in delight. “But I don’t think having some late night snacks and tea warrants that kind of reaction.”

“Just tea?” She waggles her eyebrows.

“Yes,” you say with an emphatic nod. “Just tea. Now in case you’ve forgotten, we’re here to talk about you.” Your voice is firm, but you aren’t upset by her teasing.

“Fine,” She pouts, disappointed. “Will you have to stop our sessions if you start dating?”

“I’m not dating anyone.”

“Generally speaking, I mean. Would you want to continue working if you find a romantic partner?”

It depends, you tell her. You have given it thought, even before Wufei asked about it, but it all seems like a silly hypothetical. No one stays long enough to broach the topic.

She asks,“Do you think it’d be easier to tell your partner that you’re a sex worker, or that you don’t have an interest in sex?”

There’s no doubt in your mind. You can quit sex work. Sure, you’ll have people uncomfortable with that part of you for different reasons, but attitudes are changing. Hell, you can always date someone who’s been there. Your capacity for love wouldn’t be measured by the limitations of your body. You won’t tell her that, not now, not while she’s still figuring things out. 

“Neither would be more difficult,” you say after some deliberation. “It only seems so because you anticipate this partner would reject you for either of these things. But if you embrace these parts of yourself unconditionally, those conversations change. You’re no longer giving the other person power to reject or invalidate you. Instead, you are inviting them to discover new ways to see and love you.”

You want her to know that she deserves to be happy, whether sex is part of that or not (which you will be sorting out next session). If you can still hope there’s a chance for her, you might believe that for yourself too.

***

“Sorry I had to cancel.”

“It’s fine,” you say. “It’s work.”

He sighs over the line. “I really wanted to see you.”

“Yeah?” You’re alone in your room, but you still try to suppress the grin growing on your face.

“I was thinking about the last time. How we left off. If I could go back, I would have called out sick and stayed at your place.”

“What makes you think I would have let you stay?” You try to sound sassy and wonder if he can hear your smile.

“I felt it,” he says, “from the way you looked at me when I made you tea.”

So he noticed. You bury your face in your pillow.

“I would have asked to see the bedroom. I’d kiss you again.” His voice is low, a breathy whisper through the phone. 

The sound goes straight your dick, and you squeeze yourself over your sweatpants. “Just a kiss?”

He wants to touch you, run his hands all over your bare skin. He wants to feel you against him, just as excited. You look at your phone to confirm you’re speaking to Wufei Chang. He’s really initiating phone sex with you.

Outside your window, you can hear the little radio of the food truck. It’s an unexpected soundtrack you can’t help but hum along to.  _ No, it’s not love; what you feel is called obsession. _

You bite your lip. “How do you want me?”

Under him, facing up. He wants to see you, to kiss your face and watch it while he touches you. He’s not elegant with his words, and from the way he speaks haltingly, you know he is touching himself. He’s been thinking about this since that night. Your hand slips under the waistband of your sweats.  _ An illusion in your thoughts. _

He wants to know what sound you make when he touches you. Your hand substitutes for his, and you give him a soft moan.You hope it sounds as good as his imagination. He thinks about your lips on him. He wonders how you would taste, what you’d look like writhing in pleasure. You make him so hard he says. He hasn’t been this aroused in-it’s been too long. He’s imagined you working, he confesses, and that actually makes you blush. You stroke faster, letting the sounds flow freely to his ears. He wants you to show him all your tricks. You’re flexible, he remembers.

You shut your eyes and let him speak. You’re close. You imagine yourself feeling as desperate for his cock as you say you are. You imagine yourself wanton, begging to be fucked and meaning it. I want you to fuck me, you say for him. You tell him you want to ride him, feel how hard he is inside of you. Your thoughts won’t wander, your dick would stay hard while you bounce up and down on his cock, chest to chest feeling his heartbeat against yours. 

It’s not love, it’s not love, the radio sings, it’s an obsession.

You play up your moans and conjure up a mirage of yourself for his fantasy. Yes, you say, I want you so bad. I want you under me, worship me. Say my name. You close your eyes and see yourself the way he describes you brimming with lust, insatiable. You feel yourself nearing orgasm. Yes, yes, you whisper, give me more. Let me hear you, he asks, come for me. You do, and you say his name over and over while you fuck your hand through the orgasm. You hear him follow you shortly with a low, long exhale.

“Still there?”

You nod, and then you remember he can’t see that. “Yeah. I’m here.”

“Good. I mean-uh-thank you.” Silence. “I really needed that.” You murmur a sound of agreement.

The line goes quiet, but neither of you end the call. You lay in bed, pants bunched around your thighs, and the other hand still on your softening dick.

You see dark buildings against the moonless sky, shadows on your wall created by headlights on the street coming and going. No one speaks, but there is a low buzz of feedback bridging the two of you across light years. Abstract presences observed the absence of light or sound. Desire, in the absence of sex, shaped by the negative space: attraction, anticipation, yearning.

You stay on the line while you clean yourself, and while you pull your blankets over you.

“I’m going to bed now,” you inform him.

“Oh.” He sounds disappointed.

“I can stay on,” you offer, and wince at how eager you sound. “If you want, I mean.”

Buzzing silence. “I’d like that, yeah.”

You make sure your phone is plugged in, and you put it on speaker. He’ll hear you settling into bed. From his end, the sound of water running in the background lulls you to sleep.

You awaken to sizzling by your ear. You bolt up. You didn’t cook last night. You didn’t smoke, either. You look around. The sound is coming from your phone.

“Hello?” you call out. Your mouth is dry and your voice sounds gross.

“Hey. You up?”

“No.” You squint at your clock. It’s not even seven. 

“Come on,” he says, “early bird gets the worm.”

“This bird doesn’t get out of bed for worms shorter than eight inches.” You hear a clatter, and he curses under his breath. “Did that turn you on?”

“Haha,” he says dryly. “I’m cooking breakfast and oil spattered on me.”

“Damn, Wufei, craving sausage first thing in the morning huh?”

“Bacon, actually. Are you always this dirty-minded when you wake up?”

“Only when I’m talking to you.”

“You’re a bad influence, you know that?”

You smirk. “I’m not the one who got horny over a worm joke.” You can imagine him making that face where his vein pops out of his temple. 

“Look,” he says, changing the mood of the conversation, “I’m overdue for a holiday. Sally told me about a spot up in the valley. It’s supposed to be nice this time of the year.” He hesitates. “Would you, uh, would you like to spend a weekend there? With me?” he adds quickly. 

You haven’t stepped foot outside the city in years; out there, they don’t have laws to protect you from being asked for your paperwork. The valley itself is geographically within city limits, but random checks have occured along the highways in between, which are under colony jurisdiction. Wufei assures you he knows the situation; he promises to send anyone stupid enough to stop the two of you into bureaucratic hell. 

Yeah. That sounds nice. You’ve never been up that way, but you’ve seen the pictures. He’ll send the details later. He has to go for real now, though, and you guys finally end the call. Seven hours and twenty two minutes, and it still feels like it ended too soon.

***

It’s a performance, and you are excellent actors. Your character is virile and potent, and more importantly his dick is hard and long and thick. Her character is the shy girl waiting to unleash her inner slut. She is amateurish at first but once her pussy gets a taste of your cock, it never knows dryness again. 

You watch those characters in the mirror, in an alternate world where the arousal is easy, where he tries to hush his moans and her body quivers above his because  _ we shouldn’t be doing this _ because  _ Heero might find out _ , and he feels a thrill from having the most influential woman in the known universe dripping desire on his lap. 

She begins to falter. You let go of her breasts and hook one hand under her knee, pulling it up and out so she can see herself being penetrated. You wrap your other arm around her waist and stroke her clit, occasionally bringing your fingers to her mouth for wetness. Your ability to improvise is what makes you a great supporting actor. You thrust up into her in double time and feed her the lines: you’re so hot you’re so tight your pussy feels so good do you wanna come you’re so close aren’t you

You blank out, but you know you haven’t given her the cue yet. Improv. You maneuver her onto all fours, all without leaving her body. You put her in front of the mirror, pull her hair gently so she sees herself getting nailed from behind. The lines come back to you:  _ you like being fucked like a bitch, Queen? _ You slap her ass while you thrust into her, adding a beat to the sound of your hips against hers. Her arms are shaking, and you lean over her, still holding her hair and your eyes meet through the mirror. You watch her, your co-star, bangs matted against her sweaty face and her mouth hanging open letting out a steady stream of moans and nonsense utterances. 

“Look at yourself,” you give her ass another slap, “look at yourself!” 

Her breath hitches, and you feel her tightening around you. The tricky part with women is that any little change, the angle or the speed or the power of the thrust, can bring them down from the brink of climax so fast. You’re tired, but only the stars can call cut; you’re just the supporting actor. You pull her hair back to twist her face towards yours, and you kiss her, hard, open-mouthed and suck on her bottom lip. Her arms buckle, but you catch your balance before you tumble down on her. 

This is it, the moment she will shine. You use her hair again so she is staring at herself in the mirror, face in the carpet and ass in the air.

“What would Heero say if he saw you like this?” you urge her reflection. Her eyes flutter shut, and you lick the outside of her ear before sucking on the lobe. “Should I call him over now? Have him see what his precious queen is really like?”

She goes silent and her entire body is frozen, but you keep your pace. “Why don’t we show him what a slut you really are?” That’s her cue: you feel her spasming around your cock. She lets out a soft sigh, and you add a little extra wave to her climax by gently rubbing her clitoris and rolling your hips. It’s done in a matter of seconds, and when she’s totally limp, you pull out unfinished. 

“You’re like me, aren’t you?” She’s still in a heap in front of the mirror, but even with her hair a mess and her crotch damp from your fucking, she has a commanding presence. “That’s why you knew exactly what to say.” 

“I’m a professional; it’s my job to get you there.” You give her a half smile.

“You know what it’s like, don’t you? When your mind starts to wander, and it feels like you’re not in your body anymore. That’s why you said those things - you knew how to bring me back.” She turns around to address you directly. “Does he know that you-?” She pauses.

“No.” There’s no point in denying it to her. “He doesn’t have to know.”

“Is he asexual too?”

You shake your head. You can fake it over the phone, but what you heard from him was too raw. Clumsy yet specific, stumbling for the right words because getting the fantasy right matters to him. 

“What about loving yourself unconditionally?” She reaches for your hand. “What was it you said? Inviting them to discover a part of you? Wouldn’t we be lying if we don’t tell a partner?”

“It’s complicated.” It sounds cliche but it’s the truth. “You’ll come to a point when you’ll decide what parts of yourself you are willing to smother for someone you care about.”

“But what about acceptance?” Relena gathers a sheet around herself, tightly clutching the edges over her chest. “Trowa, do you even believe anything you’d told me?”

“I have to trust I am doing the best for myself right now.” You reply.

“But why is the best for you different than it is for me?” 

You take a moment to be judicious with your response. She is a client right now, not a friend.

“You’re still the Queen of the galaxy in some hearts,” you say, “everything’s different for you.”

That ends the conversation diplomatically. You help her off the floor to get dressed. You remember her pride at being able to juggle the social demands of her parties. It must be amusing to attend to the needs of others when your own well-being isn't at stake. Maybe you’ll be like Relena if you ever leave this work, when rent or your next meal doesn’t hinge on successfully managing others’ feelings about you. 

***

Heero’s in his spot, the chair at the end of the hall. He’s pretending to read his book. The light is annoyingly kind to him at this time and angle. 

“Why are you doing this for her?”

He looks up at you from over the top of his book. “She asked if I knew someone who could help her.”

“Why did you ask me, of all people?”

“It seemed like something you could help her with. And you needed the money.” Heero sets his book down on his lap.

You pace a few steps in front of him. “Is that it? You were throwing me a bone?”

“You had good references. And I trust you won’t embarrass her.”

“How do you know that? What makes you so sure I won’t spill the beans to the best offer?” You stop pacing to address him. “You said it. I could use the money.”

Heero gives you a look, that ‘do you really want me to answer that’ expression. Yes, you dare him to.

“You wouldn’t do anything that would risk incurring a background check,” he finally says. 

So that’s it. Not some deep faith in your abilities, not a trust you earned through the years. You were chosen because you conveniently have more to lose than she does.

You take a step closer. “Go ahead. Hit me.” He looks at you like you might take his wallet, but he doesn’t move. “You know you want to. Just get it over with.”

“What are you on, Barton?” He looks away, around you, anywhere but at you.

“I fucked your girl,” you say, slowly, enunciating each syllable to sharpen their cuts.

He doesn’t bite. “We’re not-she’s not my girl.”

You step into his line of vision, and this time he doesn’t dodge. “You wish she were, don’t you? Ever since Brussels. Why else would you hang around here like a lapdog? You gotta be mad you have to sit out here and listen to me fuck her.”

“I am her chief of security,” he says as a matter of factly. “And she’s free to do what she likes.”

He gets up, moving to pass you. You edge into his space. You’ve got six inches on him easily. “Doesn’t it bother you to know that I’m doing what you wish you could? What you’ve been waiting a decade for?”

Heero remains silent, though he doesn’t break eye contact. He’s always got this way of looking at you like he’s looking through you, like you’re miles away and not just inches from his face. 

“She’d rather pay me to fuck her brains out than let you anywhere near her,” you whisper in his ear. “That’s gotta be eating you up inside.”

No reaction. He acts like he’s tuning you out, but his stance is alert. He could spring into action at any minute.

You put your fingers in front of him, just in front of his nose. “Do you want a taste of what you’re missing out on?”

You feel the clamp around your wrist before you see him move, and just manage to hold your balance as he twists your hand out of his face. 

“It means nothing to you, Barton.” Heero is perfectly still, except for the force he is exerting on you. “You fuck how many people, and it’s always the same. That’s why you do this work, isn’t it? You’re trying to fix yourself.” 

You twist your arm against his grip, but he moves with you. He doesn’t even blink. “It means nothing to her. It never will. You’re the same. That’s why I called you. I’m waiting for her to figure it out for herself.”

You can feel his fingerprints embedding into your bones. He leans in, practically nose to nose with you. Your heart races and your face burns. 

“When she’s ready, I’ll tell her that she’s perfect to me. We’re no different. I don’t need anything more from her.” Heero sees into your eyes. You break free, or he lets you go, and you swing. He’s caught your fist and delivers the Heero Yuy lunch special straight to your belly and takes your breath and balance for his troubles.

“Don’t take your damage out on me.” He stands over you while you gasp for air pathetically on the floor.

“What’s going on? Heero!” Relena’s fully dressed in the hall now rushing over. “What happened?” 

Heero takes a step back. “We were just talking.” 

“What?” She kneels down by your side. “Trowa, are you alright?”

You nod, trying to keep her calm while you get your breath back. She still fusses over you and insists on escorting you out. She links her arm through yours. She’d never be strong enough to support you, but the gesture is sweet.

“Heero, we’ll talk about this later,” she says sternly, and if your diaphragm weren’t doing flip flops, you’d throw Heero a smug grin behind Relena’s back.

***

“I’m so sorry about earlier. I don’t know what got into him!”

“Don’t be.” You lay a hand on hers. “It was just guy stuff. I’m not as fast as I used to be.”

“Boys!” she huffs, and you give her a laugh to get her to relax. “If you’re not careful, you’ll end up hurting each other!”

“I’m fine,” you repeat. “We know our limits.”

“Are you sure I can’t send you home in a car?” 

You reassure her you do not need a car. “I enjoy the view of the water on the walk down.”

She squeezes your arm. “Oh! Have you been to the pond?”

“I didn’t know there was a way to get there.” You lean over the low metal railing to peek around the bend.

“Yes, let me show you. It’s the least I can do!”

“How do you keep it together?” She’s sitting at the edge, shoes off and only her toes curl into the water. “Don’t you ever feel overwhelmed, like you’re just going to explode at any minute?”

“I do this thing where I blow bubbles.” She looks like she’s about to call security on you. “Let me show you.”

You begin to undress, and Relena blanches.

“Tro-Trowa, we’re outside!”

“Yeah?” You almost toss your shirt to the ground, but decide to try to fold it neatly, out of respect to your host in front of you.

“You can’t just-” Words fail her as soon as you drop your trousers, and you think you can see her hyperventilating when you kick your underwear to the top of the pile.

You wade into the water, and she finally is on her feet. “Come on, the water’s gorgeous.” 

“I can’t skinny dip with you!”

“You literally own this lake, Relena,” you say, gesturing at everything around you. “You have at least three levels of security just to get through the gates. You have a satellite imaging blackout over your property. The property that you own, you know?”

She still seems unconvinced.

“This place is like a fortress. What are you scared of?”

She glances back at the main building, and you follow her gaze. You know exactly which window she’s looking at, who she’s looking for. You make your way back to shore until you are able to put your hands on her shoulders.

“I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want to,” you say, “but we want you to make that decision for yourself. You don’t have to protect anyone.” You put your cold, wet hands on her face, and the sensation shocks her. You have her attention. “He wants this for you, too.”

Her eyes dart to the building one last time, then they’re back on you while she unfastens the buttons of her jacket. You begin helping her, undoing her cravat while she peels off her knit socks while you unhook her brassiere, and then she’s pressed to your side as the water inches past your knees, waists, chest. You stop when the water is at her chin.

“You ready?” you ask. She nods.

You take a deep breath, dip your head underwater, and then you scream. You scream, and the water takes everything you are expelling and surrounds it and carries it away, far away from you to the surface. You imagine yourself watching from the road, so enamored by the sky reflected on the still waters that you wouldn’t notice the cluster of bubbles rippling across the surface. So in love with the scenery and a fantasy of the scenery that you wouldn’t even notice a body screaming, drowning under the serene surface.

You feel empty yet heavy, and you sink. No more bubbles.

The water moves, and then you see her. She’s on you, and she puts her lips on yours, and her tongue parts your lips and then you feel her exhale into you. She pulls away and brings you up with her momentum. Your body shudders with how intensely you breathe.

“I thought you wouldn’t come back up.” Her voice falters, and then tears roll down her wet face. “Oh, Trowa! I was so scared!” She throws her arms around your shoulders, and her face is in your neck. You hold her, and you feel her sobs against your chest. You press your cheek against her head as if to assure her, I’m still here. You have no more words for her, no more comfort to offer besides your breath by her ear, your heart beating against hers. 

“We can’t go on like this.” Her words seem to sit in the air, heavy like humidity surrounding you on the surface of the pond. She hasn’t let go of you since you both left the water, and goosebumps dot her shoulders. 

She pulls away and looks up at you. “Promise me, Trowa,” she pleads. “I know you tell me things, kind things, and you try to get me to accept myself, but I need to know that there is more for people like us. There has to be more than-” She looks over her shoulder, to the water.

“There is more for you,” you tell her, “He’s been waiting for you.” 

She looks like she could cry again, but she’s exhausted. You both are.

“I love him so much, Trowa. I want him at my side, and I want him to want me too. I’m afraid if I let him in, he’ll try so very hard to be happy with me. I’m scared I won’t be enough for him, and he won’t realize until it’s too late. I don’t want him to regret choosing me.”

You rub your hand against her bare shoulder. Goosebumps are rising on her skin, so you hold her tighter against you. 

“You told me the day of the party that you save a seat for him in case he brings a guest. Has Heero ever taken you up on that plus-one?” 

Relena shakes her head no.

“You think he might suddenly change his mind about having someone else at his side.”

“We’re just friends,” she says, eyes downcast. “Heero’s not the mingling type, you know. There are expectations on me as the hostess. All those niceties would be dreadfully boring for him if he had to stay at my side the entire night.”

Now you’re perplexed. “If you think he wouldn’t enjoy himself, then why invite him at all?”

She bites her lip. “It’s awfully selfish of me, but I feel safer when he’s there. Even if we don’t spend a minute together. When I look around and see him there, I just know everything will be fine.”

“Heero doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to. I don’t know what he considers a good time, but we both know he wouldn't suffer a bad one if he can avoid it.” You bring both of your arms around her, so she’s pressed against your chest. “If you really love him, Relena, then let him decide for himself. He’s waiting for you to let him.”

The lake looks as it does from your usual vantage point. It’s exactly as you’ve seen it, and somehow you are disappointed that there’s nothing more. You thought you’d weep once you were immersed in the scenery you had longed to enter since you first laid eyes on it. You already wish you were back on the other side, on the road looking down believing that this lake held potential unseen, that you can rewind yourself to the moment before agreeing to step foot here. 

She presses her face against your chest. “Will you tell Wufei?”

Relena is lucky that Heero wouldn’t put her through the questions, the doubt, the pervasive expectation that you can be fixed with pills or psychology. Telling’s not the hard part. It’s an understandable dealbreaker. You’ve been burned for much less, and getting dumped is like a hangover or food poisoning at this point. It’s a miserable process you don’t look forward to, but you know you will recover. You can live with rejection; it’s the disappointment that worries you. 

You want to believe that even if he needs more than what you are able to give, that he will at least let you have your brief moments together untarnished. You wish you could preserve this version of him forever: the one who you charmed with street food, the one who enchanted you with a cup of tea, the one who misses you across the universe. If you could freeze these moments in your mind in a sepia-tinted memory reel, like flowers preserved in amber, you’d tell him in a heartbeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lyrics from the classic Obsesión by Aventura


	4. RETREAT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts with some sex that’s meant to read as consensual yet uncomfortable. Please proceed with caution.

_IV. RETREAT_

> _As the image of myself becomes sharper in my brain &more precious, I feel less afraid that someone else will erase me by denying me love. — _ _[ Jenny Slate](https://twitter.com/jennyslate/status/713122239072247809?lang=en) _

  
You drop your bags on the floor, and that might as well be a starting gun. His arms are around your waist and he’s pressing you against the wall, shoulders to shoulders. You like this part, when you kiss, and your legs feel like they are melting. You could do this forever. If only this was enough for him too. And then he brings his entire body flush against yours. It won’t be.

He breaks the kiss to undress. He lets his scarf and coat fall to the floor. You instinctively reach to pick it up, but he’s got his arms around you again, this time from behind, and his lips are on your neck, jaw, behind your ear. His hand squeezes your groin, and you press into his touch. You place your hand over his, and intertwine your fingers to rub yourself. You know how to manipulate your body to behave the way people expect. 

Next is your coat, which you make sure at least gets thrown on the petite sofa. Wufei toes his shoes off, and you feel him nudging your heels. Good luck with that, your boots are laced up and around your ankles. You let him do all the work, all the better to stall the inevitable.

“Jesus christ,” he mutters, and drops down to his knees to yank at your laces. His grip around your calf is strong and unexpectedly arousing. You’ll hold on to that. When he gets both of them off and tosses them aside, he brings his face to the junction of your legs and you feel his lips pressing against your inner thigh. You wish he wouldn’t; you’re breaking these jeans in and haven’t washed them in the months you’ve had them. 

His hands slide up your thighs, and they make quick work of your belt. It falls to the floor with a heavy sound. He’s back on his feet, and he jerks your belt loops so you’re hip to hip. Even through layers of denim, you feel how stiff he already is. You go for the kiss again. Maybe you’ll catch up to him.

He breaks the kiss to take off that stupid corporate puffy vest he always wears, and then the super space fiber knitwear, and then the long sleeve tee. So many layers, and he still has a thermal undershirt on. You only have a cotton tee shirt under a chunky wool sweater. Nature is the superior insulator. They pull off in one swoop. You make sure they don’t end up on the floor; that sweater is dry clean only. 

He guides you to the bed with your belt loops, and then his hands are on your hips pulling you down so your knees are on either side of him and you’re sitting on his lap. You grind against him; people like when you do that. Behind him, the cabin’s signature wall-to-wall window. The trees are still full of leaves, sprays of red and yellow as far as you can see. They are vivid against the pale grey sky. His hands are on your stomach while his mouth is on your chest. Hot, wet, then cold when he moves to give the other side attention. It tickles more than anything, but you hold him in place with your arms around his shoulders so you can have a few more seconds with the view. 

His fingers slip past your waistband and dip between your underwear and your body. A breeze ripples through the leaves, and the thin branches bob and sway. A draft seems to make it through the glass, and you shiver. He undoes the first button on your jeans, the second button, and by the third button you’re ready. First, you bring his face back up for another kiss, reinforcement for the next parts. You lean forward, until you bring both your bodies to lie down to the bed. The linens are soft, a contrast to the cabin’s rustic appearance. You move down to kiss his jawline, his neck, and then that spot between his collar bones. You have a map in your mind where you lay a constellation of kisses down his body of varying magnitudes.

You undo his pants. He wears simple, solid black, square-cut briefs. They’re probably some lunar fiber that cradles his balls with six-dimensional weave. They follow his pants to the floor. His dick is hard. There’s nothing poetic about a boner. You start with your tongue flat and lick up his balls, light pressure on the right side, just the tip down the seam, back up gently on the left, then up the shaft. You listen carefully to his reactions. You put your lips around the head of his cock. 

You let him raise his hips up, taking him further into your mouth. You feel him poke the back of your throat. Today might be the day you manage to deep throat someone. You push your tongue out as far as you can and angle your head for a better point of entry. You suck softly and get a good sound in return. You take him farther, deeper-okay, no, today is not the day you lose your deep throat cherry. 

It’s a pattern of licking, sucking, giving attention to his balls. You hate giving head because you hate the smell of your own saliva. Even when you’ve just brushed your teeth or rinsed with mouthwash, it’s just the smell of your own mouth. It grosses you out. Your mouth gets dry, too. You need a gallon of water to suck a dude off. 

“Wait, wait.” Wufei leans up on his elbows. He looks good like this, hair down around his flushed face. You try to remember that expression so you can imitate it later. He pushes himself up to his knees, and then he’s bringing you up so he can finish the work on your pants. He vanquishes buttons four and five, and then your jeans join his on the floor. He puts his mouth on you through your underwear. You’re half hard, not shabby. He peels off that last garment, and his hand helps you along to a respectable erection. 

You stop him long enough so you can lay alongside him, face to face, until your dick is touching his. You throw a leg over his for leverage. You go in for the kiss, and you feel excitement in your chest. You can do this for him, and you’ll enjoy it. His hand is on your hip, and he’s rubbing against you. You moan into his mouth, and that seems to switch a gear in him. He moves faster, shallower, and as long as your lips stay locked, you might be able to finish like this. Maybe this can be enough for now. 

He leans so he’s laying over you on your back. “This is really happening.” Thankfully he’s kissing you again. He brings your legs up and your knees apart.

It’s still grey out, but you can see thick clouds in the sky. They seem closer, so full and voluminous, like you can reach out and touch them. What would it be like to be inside one of those? Would it be like walking through a mist, or would it be more like smoke? 

“How’s that?” He’s trying to be gentle with his fingers, but there’s always discomfort in that first intrusion. You exhale everything out, concentrating on relaxing. “Talk to me,” he insists. “I want to know what feels good to you.” 

You nod. It’s not really an answer, but it’s not a lie, either. It’s been so long since you’ve done this sober; there’s never been any appeal from either end. 

“Hold on.” You wiggle out from under him to get to your bag. 

His face falls when he sees the little glass bottle. “I wanted this to be different for you.”

“It is,” you reassure him. “This just makes things easier, okay?” His eyes are still on the jar of poppers in your hand. You can tell he’s not happy from the way he turns away while you unscrew the lid. You take a hit, and wow you should have done that way sooner. You set the bottle nearby, and then wrap your legs around his waist to get his attention.

You don’t have to say anything. He’s already rolling a condom on, and following with extra lube to be sure. You try to remember that phone call, his fantasy of you, what he expects you to say, the way he wants you to beg for his cock. Your head vibrates from how loud you moan when he enters you. Maybe it’s a scream, but maybe not because he doesn’t stop until he’s all the way in.

“You’re so beautiful right now,” he whispers, tracing a hand across your brows, down your cheek and the side of your nose, across your lips. His own follow, and each kiss on your eyelids, on your nose, on your cheeks leaves a numb tingle in its wake. He reaches between you to stroke your dick.

No, you want to say back, no I am not beautiful. Not right now. Not while you’re coming down from the poppers, reaching for the bottle again. Wondering if it’ll be like this every time. Another huff, this one would have knocked you flat on your back if you weren’t already there. Fuck me, you groan, and then nausea hits you like a tidal wave, and he follows. He leans over you and surrounds your peripheral vision. Don’t look at me, you want to say while he continues to tell you how tight you feel, how hard your cock is, how beautiful you are.

Your head rolls to the side, nuzzling against his forearm. More, you murmur with your lips against the crease of his inner elbow. There’s a river in the distance, beyond the trees. You wonder if you can hike down that way, and whether it’ll be too cold to go in. You’ve got bubbles to blow. 

His hand cradles your head, and he brings his face to yours. You hardly feel his kiss, so clouded by the drugs. You kiss back, as far as you can lift your head before the dizziness overtakes you, but there’s nothing. You feel your orgasm nearing. It’s a physiological inevitability. You reach a hand around his neck to hold him closer, murmur a warning by his ear. You feel like you’re pressing a broken button with your lips, kissing him over and over, hoping to ignite that spark. You open your mouth when you cum, but your throat is so dry the only sound is your rasping breath.

He’s on his finishing strokes, and you try to clench around him so he enjoys it to the end. You grimace when he pulls out. He’s doing that thing again, touching your face and saying sweet nothings. A visceral repulsion rises from deep in you, and you swat his hands away.

“Stop calling me beautiful.” You don’t mean to be loud, but the post-popper headache is oncoming, and you need to focus on your words. “Not like this.”

He backs off. “Did I do something to upset you?”

“No,” you say. “It’s not you. It’s me.” 

And then you tell him. You ran the scenario hundreds of times leading up to the trip, on the car ride up, but none of those permutations landed you here, spelling it out for him post-coitus. You’ll find it funny when you move past this, and you hope he will too.

“So all of this means nothing to you?” He really does need to work on asking questions without sounding so accusatory.

“That’s not what I said. Sex means nothing to me. I can do it obviously, and sometimes it does feel good for me. But now was not one of those times, and I can’t deal with you calling that beautiful.”

He’s stunned. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t either, and I live with it.” The line sounded funnier in your head. “Sorry, this isn’t how I imagined telling you.”

You can see the thoughts behind his eyes, pushing their way to be the first out of his mouth. “Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

“I wanted to be wrong.” You reach for his hand, and he lets you hold him but he doesn’t return the gentle squeeze you give him.

“But you knew it was a likely possibility, and you said nothing.” Wufei pulls his hand away and leaves the bed. He picks up his clothes from the floor and begins to get dressed. “You let me do that to you, and you were miserable the entire time?”

“I really thought things would be special with you.” 

He picks his coat up off the floor. “Yeah, well. Me too.” He checks his pockets for his phone and keys.

“Where’re you going?”

His hand is on the door. “Out.” His car keys jangle in his hand. You don’t realize you’re making a face until he scowls. “I’m not going to ditch you. I can’t-I need to think. Here.” He holds his wallet up in the air for you to see, and makes a big gesture of setting it on the table. “Don’t wait up. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

You sit for a few minutes until you see his car pull out of the dirt lot. You watch it head down a trodden path, then disappear past the trees on the main road. You press your face against the window, waiting like a sad dog for its master to come home.

You go into autopilot. Long, hot shower. Smoke while you stare at your phone. Reception is crap, and it’s eating up your battery. It hasn’t been an hour since he left. You unpack the groceries you brought up. At the top of the bag is a small wooden box. It’s in good shape, but worn with age. You flip open the lid and see two little cups inside. They’re like squat shot glasses, but intricately lacquered. You want to pick one up and examine it, to trace your fingers over the delicate lines. You’ll have to wait and see if Wufei will let you. You close the lid softly and set it aside. 

You wash the fresh produce and set them out to dry. Not even ten minutes. You find a towel and dry the vegetables and fruits that you can. Twelve minutes. You roll another joint to relax. 

The sky has cleared up, showing patches of blue through the thinning clouds. The sunlight is coming in stronger now and fills the cabin with a warm glow. It feels strange to know it’s still the afternoon; you’ve lived through a week in the span of hours. How could things have changed so fast? Just a few weeks ago, you wouldn’t have even noticed how long it had been since you had spoken to Wufei, and now he’s the only thing on your mind. 

Well, not him exactly: it was the image of who you could be with him. You were enamored with a version of yourself through his eyes. Under his gaze, you were the clever, sensual person you always wanted to be, someone who effortlessly teases and flirts their way into the mind of a man across the galaxy, driving him wild with just the sound of your voice. Through his eyes, you could be loved the way you’ve always wished to be.

A smoky haze begins to settle around you. Hotboxing the cabin is definitely not going to help Wufei’s mood when he gets back. You put out your joint and open the door to get fresh air. There’s no sign of his car in sight, and if it weren’t for his bag and wallet and some of his clothes lying around, you’d wonder if he were ever there at all. 

From the doorway, you can see a trail marker. It’s red, signalling its difficulty. You see another marker down the way. And beyond, the river. Oh, why the hell not; it doesn’t look so challenging. You insisted on paying your share of the stay, though you wouldn’t be surprised if Wufei lied about how much it really cost. Might as well get your money’s worth.

You carefully step down the rocky path, testing each stone before setting your weight on it. The ground is dry, thankfully, and there’s no risk of anything moving unexpectedly. Still, you don’t want to end up slipping and spraining your ankle or worse. Who knows when Wufei will get back? Would he even be able to hear you screaming for help if you slipped down and landed by the river? He might not risk venturing out into unfamiliar terrain in the dark. If he does come back.

What if Wufei decided he’d rather suffer the inconvenience of leaving his wallet and some clothes behind than see your face again? You could vanish out here, and no one would notice until at least your next session on Wednesday, but they’re an infrequent client. They might think you stood them up. After that, maybe your landlord when they don’t get your rent. You suddenly feel very lonely. 

Something warm hits your hand. It’s water. You look up and the sky is clear, with only a tuft or two of clouds in the distance. It happens again, and then your vision blurs. You try to stop the tears with your palms, and take deep, controlled breaths. You can’t do this now, not while trying to keep your footing on this incline that you grossly underestimated. You don’t have any tissues, and you refuse to get snot on your mohair blend sweater over this.

You inhale deeply, count to five, then exhale slowly, and then repeat a few turns. You’re already halfway down this path. It’s easier to go with gravity than to fight it. You squat to keep your center of gravity low, and take cautious, slow steps down the narrow trail. Slow and steady, slow and steady. Think of it as an intense glute workout.

The ground finally levels off, and the river is just ahead. It’s more like a stream as you approach. It’s clear, and you judge it to be about knee-deep. You find a long branch to confirm the water’s depth. Disappointing. You expected a wider body of water with a strong current that would fill your ears with its rush. It’s at least deep enough that you can still creatively submerge your head. You get on your knees as close to the edge as you can, and try to lean forward. There’s no way you can get your head under without toppling in. 

You think about laying on your belly, so only your neck and head hangs into the water. First you remove your sweater; you don’t want it to touch the ground and pick up dirt. You hold it rolled up in your hands while you assume the position, and once you’re settled, you reach around and carefully balance the sweater on your back. What if Wufei were to find you at this exact moment, face down in the water with your sweater neatly piled on your back? Would he think the worst? Would the sheer absurdity of the sight diffuse his anger? 

From this position, you can only dip your forehead in. You shimmy farther up the edge. This time, you can get your face into the water. It’s not a full head submersion, but you’re in deep enough that you can scream and nobody will hear you. You come up for breath. Your hair clings to your face, and you feel silt in your mouth. You push yourself away from the water. 

Why did you even do that? There’s nobody around to hear you. 

You scream out in the air. It’s an ugly sound. It’s a brief attempt; you didn’t breathe properly to sustain it. You’re so used to muffling yourself underwater that your own voice is unnatural to you, even as the air vibrates in your chest and rises to reverberate in your head as you release it out into the world. You feel lightheaded, but you keep going until your face feels numb and your throat is sore. The smoking and the poppers and the shouting did a real number on you.

You pick up your sweater, which has ended up on the ground despite your efforts, and prepare to move on. The trail you took down is too steep to return on; you know to respect the trail markers now. You look downstream and see the water disappear around a bend. You can see the white markers for beginners’ trail run parallel, but it seems to go in the opposite direction of the cabin and farther down. Upstream is a more challenging terrain. You see a yellow-marked route more forgiving than the one you came down, but it’s still a climb. You can see the stream burbling down from that way. You might get a better view of the trees from there.

There’s no sound but your footsteps and the gentle murmur of the stream. You take a rest about halfway up, and sit on a smooth spot along the slope. Even though it’s a shallower incline than the first trail, your thighs are glutes are feeling it. 

Even though you’re at about the same elevation as when you originally started, the cabin looks so far away. The sun is behind it so you can only see its shape, and it looks like a postcard scene with all the colorful leaves in the background. You think you should have brought your phone. But your phone wouldn’t be able to see the vivid colors the way you do, so you try to etch the scene in your memory. You adore the view of the sky from your place, but sunset over the neighbors’ rooftops is hardly comparable to what’s in front of you. Even the view over Relena’s pond can’t hold a torch to this.

You’ll come back, alone or not. Wufei has a right to want nothing to do with you at the moment, but you do not owe him any penance. You will not close yourself off to the wonders of the world just because you mistakenly believed your body would behave differently with him. Pain can be caused without malice, or even intent. You were only guilty of pressing on each others’ invisible wounds, but neither of you caused them. Why does it hurt then? You feel a deep longing for that excitement he sparked the night after the party. The potential, the hope, the illusion of healing. 

Will you ever be enough?

Maybe if you stopped sending money to the circus, you’d be able to buy yourself a solution to your problems. Lawyers, or maybe just another fake ID. What you send is a pittance compared to their expenses, but it’s the least you can do since you’ve been unable to travel with them. Catherine’s calls always start with itemized updates on all the new amenities for the animals, funded by your remittances. She’d put you on speaker so the menagerie can hear your voice. Before you end the call, she’d warn you about giving too much away and being left with nothing for yourself. 

You can’t stop it this time, and the pressure behind your sinus takes over. Tears flow freely as you scale the hillside, and you laugh at the absurdity of having an emotional meltdown while hiking. Through your tears you can see the fiery red treetops slowly appear with each step. You can’t control the way your face screws up with each sob, but you won't let your progress be hindered by it. 

You wipe your eyes and head upwards. The sun will not wait for your emotions to subside before continuing its journey into night. Everything around you takes a yellow-orange tint. You’re glad you wore the raw denim because the dirt and sweat you’re putting them through is going to wear them out fantastically. The water babbles on. You turn around to gaze at the vista below. 

You didn’t bring your phone, or any sort of flashlight when you set out. You don’t even remember if you closed the door behind you; you thought you’d only be out a few minutes. It’ll be dark in less than an hour, and you’re relying on being able to see the cabin to return. You have to keep going. 

When you finally reach the high ground, you stop to catch your breath. The air is dry and crisp, and fills your nose and lungs with a soothing coolness. Dusky blue begins to creep over the horizon. You only have a few minutes to look up at the autumn leaves, red and orange and yellow, honey-kissed by the fading daylight. In these surroundings, you forget everything else. You are filled with a profound awe at the majestic light casting its glow over the nature beneath you. This is the view you expected to see in the valley, and it’s everything you anticipated and so much more.

It’s been so long since you’ve been outside the city proper, and you’re not going to waste what precious time you have here. This cannot be the last time you see this. You will get your life together somehow, and you will come back. You have to. You cannot have your only memories of this spectacular place be tainted by the events of this weekend. 

A gleaming reflection catches your attention. It’s Wufei’s car, winding up back to the cabin. You should get back; he might freak out if he finds the cabin empty, door open, and your phone left behind. 

The evening sky leans heavy on the waning pink and orange. The trail back to the cabin is much more straightforward from up here. The full moon begins to rise. The evening air seeps through your knit sweater. You welcome the way it surrounds you and seems to penetrate you to the core. It is brisk against your face. You no longer need the markers to find your way back; you head towards the warm light coming from the cabin.

Soon night will blanket everything, but the trees will not lose their rich colors when the sun goes down. The stream glitters under the silver-blue moonlight all the same. From this distance, you can see into the kitchen window. Wufei is inside, putting a kettle on. He pulls out the wooden box from the grocery bags, and he sets the two teacups on the counter. He produces a tin from his bag, and scoops some of the contents into a similarly decorated teapot. He then crosses his arms and watches the water boil. 

Your hand is on the door now. You don’t know what may happen tonight. You may be disappointed, but you will not be devastated. And then you enter the cabin, where he is waiting for you.  
  


END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for making it through this largely experimental narrative.


End file.
